


P Is For Palimpsest

by mydogwatson



Series: A Baker Street Alphabet [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, post reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the reunion, it is time for some truths to be spoken.  Even Sherlock knows that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	P Is For Palimpsest

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to thank everyone for reading and commenting and leaving kudos on my stories. You can never know what it means to me.
> 
> On a completely different note: My dog Watson won the Most Creative Costume Award at doggy daycare yesterday in his steampunk outfit, goggles and all. We are very proud!

The past is but the beginning of a beginning  
and all that is and has been is but the  
twilight of the dawn.  
-H.G. Wells

 

Little bits of the past kept coming back to him at unexpected moments. Each time, he would examine the memory completely, extrapolate what he could, then file it carefully away in the room constructed especially for the purpose. It seemed important to save them, in case those memories were all he would have in the end.

At some point, Sherlock decided that he was not comfortable in limbo. He was not a man used to being unsure. [Some might have mentioned his arrogance. He could remember arrogance, but it seemed to have been lost somewhere between that day the roof of St. Barts and the present time.]

It had been three weeks since their reunion in Mycroft’s guestroom and Sherlock was still waiting for the expected confrontation. In the beginning, of course, he had been weak and vulnerable from the pneumonia, so it made sense that the Talk [explanations, anger, apologies, forgiveness, whatever it was going to be] would wait until he was healthier.

But John had wanted, and deserved, explanations. He had promised anger. And forgiveness. That promise to forgive was the fragment of hope Sherlock was clinging to. It was all he had to cling to.

In the twenty-one days since they had seen one another again, John had taken over his care. He had been firm with Mycroft that they were going to Baker Street. Mycroft frowned and demurred, but in the end, he agreed. It would take a mighty force to defy John Watson when he was set upon a course of action, mightier even than Mycroft Holmes and his brolly.

Sherlock was so glad to be back within the walls of the only place that had ever really felt like home, at least since he’d been a small child. Oh, how much wiser he had become over the past months. Wise enough to know that “home” was not defined by walls or things, even precious things like his violin or the skull or his scientific equipment. No, there was only one reason that this flat was a Home.

That reason was currently having a shower.

Sherlock was no longer bed-ridden, although there had been no excursions outside yet. That was due, in part, to the illness, of course, but also because Mycroft had been working on the details of bringing him back to life. Mrs. Hudson knew and that reunion had been much too emotional. She seemed torn between anger and joy. The anger seemed to exist mostly on John’s behalf, so Sherlock could not begrudge her. Lestrade also knew and that had been another awkward meeting.

But above it all there was John. The doctor. The caretaker. The friend?

The fact that it was even a question was almost too painful to think about.

This particular morning Sherlock had been awakened by a text from Mycroft. 

//WELCOME BACK TO LIFE, MON FRERE.//

In celebration he had actually dressed after his shower, donning a black suit and his favorite aubergine shirt. Nothing fit quite properly yet, but it was better than it had been. John was feeding him up. He had hopes of going out today. Maybe just for a walk in the park, simply to inhale and absorb London again. He was standing by the window looking out at Baker Street when John came down the stairs.

“No need to ask how you’re feeling, I guess,” he said with a faint smile as he noticed the lack of a dressing gown.

Sherlock turned and looked at him. “I am officially reborn. I thought of going out today.”

“Fine,” John said. “Just don’t over do.”

“I cannot. My doctor is very strict.”

“Bloody right.”

Sherlock put both hands into his trouser pockets and ambled into the kitchen after John. “I was going to suggest a walk in the park,” he said tentatively. “If you would like.”

John filled the kettle and put it on the hob before turning to look at him. “You want me to come along? I thought that perhaps you’d be sick of my company by now.”

Sherlock blinked, trying to decide if John was being serious or making a weak joke. He decided to take the remark seriously. “I am never sick of your company,” he said, then spun around and went to drop onto the settee.

It wasn’t long before John came in and handed him a cup of tea. He took his own cup and went to his chair. Sherlock waited until each of them had taken two sips. Then he gave a long, indulgent sigh, which earned him a glance. “The tea,” he said by way of explanation. “You have no idea how much I…missed the tea you make.”

John almost smiled at that.

Sherlock wondered if this might be the opening into a conversation that had to happen, no matter how much he was dreading it. “In fact,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I gave up drinking the stuff altogether. One day I was on a train somewhere in China and I just decided to have no more tea until you could make me a cup again.”

It was a long moment before John spoke in response to that. “A train in China, eh? You had a lot of adventures, didn’t you?”

Sherlock clearly heard the underlying message. //You had adventures while I was here grieving for a dead man who wasn’t dead. // He leaned forward and fixed John with an open gaze. This was not the time to stay hidden behind his usual walls. Not unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life alone surrounded by those damned walls. Which he most definitely did not “I hated it,” he said, a little surprised at how gravelly his voice sounded. “I hated every minute of it. It was dreadful.” He looked away, dragging a hand through his hair. “I was…so alone.”

John flinched at the words.

Sherlock leaned back. “John, we haven’t talked about it yet. I can tell you what I did, every person I killed, every place I went. Whatever you want to know. I expect your anger, but I will tell you everything. But you also promised me forgiveness and I hope you meant that.” He paused. Sherlock realised that he must not be the same coward he had been before. He thought about the promises he had made to himself on all those dreadful solitary nights. “I will accept the anger. Anything you say to me in that anger, I deserve. I will be glad of the forgiveness, even if I don’t deserve it. Especially if I don’t deserve it. But one thing. Please don’t leave.” He hated the neediness in his voice. But needs must. He was needy and it would accomplish nothing to deny it. Nothing good, anyway.

John was quiet as he finished his tea. Then he got up and moved to sit on the settee with Sherlock. “Yes,” he murmured, almost as if talking to himself, “it is time to talk.” He took a deep breath and held it, before expelling it slowly. “Sherlock, I will listen to whatever you want or need to tell me. And I do not think I will get angry.” He flicked a smile. “Although the option is still open, if you tell me you did anything spectacularly stupid.”

Sherlock nodded, knowing immediately what he would not tell John.

“But, in fact, I am willing to wait to hear your stories. I am willing to skip right past the anger and to acknowledge that whatever forgiveness you might think you need has already been granted.”

Sherlock almost relaxed, but somehow he knew there was more to come. He even accepted that there were things he had to say, whether or not John would want to hear them.

“But there are two things before we can get to that point. One is a question I have to ask, Sherlock, and I must insist that you answer me honestly. The other is a request I will make. If you answer the question and agree to the request, I can move on.”

Sherlock almost opened his mouth to say that he was always honest with John but the blatant fallacy of that kept him quiet. Then the rest of what John had said hit him. Like a blow to the solar plexus. “Move on?” he whispered. What did that mean? Was it merely a kinder way of saying move out and start a new life?

John didn’t clarify.

“Ask the question,” Sherlock said sharply.

John was staring into his eyes. Sherlock did not look away. “Why did you do it?” John asked softly.

“Why?” This was not the question he had been expecting. John knew the whole story now. They were still looking into one another’s eyes. “John, I had to. Otherwise, you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would be dead. I couldn’t let that happen. They didn’t deserve to die for my mistakes. And you…I couldn’t risk your life.”

John raised a hand. “ I know all that, Sherlock.”

Was it his imagination or did John shift a little closer? Sherlock didn’t move. “But you asked.”

“Listen to my question. Why did you do it? Tell me the reason, Sherlock.”

And in that moment, Sherlock knew that the rest of his life was hovering on a precipice more deadly than even the roof of St. Barts. If he said the wrong thing now, if he were not absolutely truthful, then he might as well have stayed away, just kept riding those damned Chinese trains or sweltering in various jungles until the day he died.

John was patiently watching him. Waiting.

Sherlock gave another sigh, a helpless breath. “I did it because I love you.” The words seemed to hang there in the air between them and Sherlock felt as if his heart was suspended there as well. “I love you,” he repeated. “Have done for a very long time. But I know that you---”

A finger touched his lips. “Shush,” John said.

Sherlock shuddered at the touch.

“When you left, I thought the pain would kill me. Probably would have done, eventually. I did not want to live without you.” He leaned closer, until his lips were just a whisper away from Sherlock’s. But he stopped, leaving the decision to Sherlock.

And, of course there was no real decision to make. It had been made already. Sherlock thought that maybe it had been made that first day in the lab at Barts. Or perhaps even earlier, in the mummy room of the British Museum. He leaned just a fraction closer and his lips touched John’s for the first time.

Someone breathed an “At last.”

//At last.//

Neither man ever really knew which one of them said it, but that didn’t matter, of course, because both of them were thinking it.

//At last.//

Neither man knew, in addition, just what was supposed to happen next. So nothing at all happened for several moments, save for the soft exchange of warm, moist breaths from mouths that still hovered close to one another.

It was John who seemed to decide upon a starting point, pushing his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. “Oh,” he said. 

Sherlock blinked. “That feels…rather nice,” he said hesitantly.

The fingers moved gently, twisting in the curls, holding on. “Been wanting to do that forever,” John muttered.

“Really?” Sherlock very much wanted to think about that for a while, but this moment did not seem like the proper time for such cogitation. Instead, he filed the thought away for future consideration.  
It then occurred to him that possibly the next step should be his. He wondered about touching John’s hair [coincidentally something he had also thought about previously, without really knowing why for a very long time.] But then he decided to do something different. He lifted a hand and rested it against John’s face. 

He knew immediately that this was where his hand belonged, where it had always belonged.

John seemed to enjoy the touch, turning into it and, unexpectedly, pressing his lips into Sherlock’s palm.

Surprising himself a little, Sherlock smiled.

After another moment, John wrapped both arms around Sherlock and pulled him close. Sherlock did not hesitate at all, lifting his arms and returning the embrace.

This did not feel awkward. In fact, it felt so right that Sherlock was a little stunned.

They stayed that way, not speaking, for several moments, before pulling apart reluctantly.

Sherlock cleared his throat, then realised he had no idea at all what to say or do next.

John smiled faintly and patted his arm. “No fear,” he said in a comfortable, warm voice. “How about we take that walk in the park now?”

Not for the first time, Sherlock was reminded that John Watson was far from as stupid as the rest of the world.

And when John stood, then took Sherlock’s hand to pull him up as well, before planting a quick kiss on his lips, it occurred to the detetctive that just maybe this man was bloody brilliant.

*

As they walked, Sherlock talked about where he had been and what he had done. All of it, he kept nothing from John. Well, except for the drugs. He confessed to the cigarettes, but not to the other various substances. It wasn’t important, was it? He would never use again. And it had only been   
a couple of times. [Why did he lie even to himself? It had been five times.]

John did not flinch away, no matter how dreadful the details. He did not judge. He only listened, all the while keeping his fingers tightly laced with Sherlock’s.

Sherlock felt anchored.

Eventually, his words ran down and he remembered something else. “A request,” he said.

John looked at him. “What?”

“Before. You said a question and a request.”

They stopped on a footbridge and watched some ducks on the water for a moment. “Yes,” John said quietly. “My request.” He stared at a group of children playing nearby, as he gripped Sherlock’s hand even more tightly. “I cannot go through anything like that again. You must promise never to leave me behind. No matter what the circumstances.”

Even though it was not said, Sherlock could hear an “or else” attached to those words. He didn’t say anything for a long time. “I…” he started, not really knowing how he would finish that sentence. Then he just nodded. “All right.” He hated the fact that even as he agreed to John’s request, one part of him, tucked deeply inside, knew that he would do whatever it took to protect the other man. But he would try to keep the promise. He would try harder than he had ever tried anything in his life.

After a few more minutes, they started walking again, this time without talking. 

Sherlock was surprised at how very different this silence was from all the silences he’d had over the months he was away. This silence was not lonely. It was a quietness that wrapped around him like an orange shock blanket and settled his mind like a cup of John’s tea.

He sighed and knew that now, finally, he really was home.

 

fini


End file.
